


Foolish Heart

by givemeunicorns



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Feral and In Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Multiple Orgasms, No Betas we die like Renfri, Oral Sex, Pining, Poly Geralt, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: Geralt don't know how to be loved. Jaskier is happy to teach him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 343
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Foolish Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, this is 10,014 words of feelings with some porn thrown in at the end. A special thanks to madsthenerdygirl( please go check out her fics, they are great) for letting me yell about this for 2 weeks while I wrestled with finishing it. This is unbeated and my first work in the fandom so if there are any glaring issues, feel free to let me know in the comments so I can fix them. Enjoy!

Geralt really should have found a way to be rid of Jaskier by now.

It's not that he didn't try. He did. Very hard in fact. But no matter how much he tried, Geralt could not seem to shun the Bard's company.

Witchers were meant to be solitary creatures. They were designed to be hard and hearty, for the life they lived was a brutal and vicious one. Normal folk weren't suited to it, they feared it, and the fear made them mean. They shunned it, harshly and without doubt. They had to see the witchers as less, because Witchers were made to be more; faster, sharper, stronger, more like the monsters they fought and less like the men they protected. It was simply the way of things.

Jaskier had never been afraid, not of Geralt at least. Cuckolded husband's and the lady friends of his spurned lovers perhaps, but never of the witcher. Geralt kept waiting to smell it on him, to see the spark of it in his eyes but never did. Maybe it was because Jaskier didn't have the sense the gods gave a turnip when it came to his own self preservation, but he had never shied away from Geralt or what he was. Not only that, the bard made a lot of other people less afraid too. Despite Jaskier's irritating habit of never shutting the fuck up, his songs made Geralt's work a lot easier. These days, people knew his name not from hushed whispers told to children to get them to behave, but from the ballads sung in taverns and hummed by fishwives while they worked. They knew the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. His name was spoken in many places now not with contempt but with a sense of curiosity, of novelty, or at the very least, a sense of begrudging respect. It wasn't much but it was the difference between sleeping rough on the road and watching his back or sleeping a decent bed, with a full belly, a hot bath, and someone willing to help him pass the time. And all thanks to a magpie bard he'd collect on accident and hadn't been able to shake since.

To Jaskier's credit, he was brave, in his own way. He was driven, and not afraid of hard travel, even if he complained about it endlessly. Born to a good family; minor nobility, important enough to be comfortable, but not important enough to make trouble, Jaskier could have found a cushy court position somewhere without even trying. He was classically trained after all, a fact he would never let Geralt forget. He was popular in the cities, even if the small farming towns were known to pelt him with baked goods on occasion. Life could have been easy for Jaskier, if he' d wanted it to be. He'd chosen instead to pursue his stories, to befriend Geralt, with nothing more than bread in his pants and inflated sense of self importance. He would be the bard that wrote the tales of the Witcher, who chronicled the life of the unknowable being that kept the common folk safe from ghouls and beasties. He climbed into the mire of his own free will, stayed in it, even after he saw what was lurking below the surface. He stayed for the songs, for the glory, yes, but the was some part of Geralt that didn't wonder if Jaskier didn't love the thrill of it too. Of living a life most people would only ever hear about in stories. Not that Geralt would ever let him get very close to any beasts or battles, if he could help it. Still, there was always a danger in being at a witcher's side, from monsters and men alike. Jaskier stayed all the same, a constant, companionable source of chatter, true and steady as the sun in the sky and dirt under his feet.

Which came with its own trials, ones Geralt had not foreseen and was now in far too deep to distance himself from. Namely, that the bard was rubbing off on him. There was a softness to Jaskier that Geralt found himself falling into, quite against his will and better judgement. He didn't like being attached to people, but here he'd gone and done it twice in as many decades. Yennefer wasn't soft. She couldn't be, she'd never shown how, and even if she had, the world never would have allowed it. Her world was as unforgiving and harsh as his own, filled with its own breed of monsters, who wore velvet cloaks and spoke in cloying tongues, but remained no less dangerous than ghouls or wraiths. It had carved her down to a cutting edge, made her sharp and ruthless in order to survive. They were dangerous animals, the two of them, locked together by fate and magic and the desperate, secret need to be seen by someone who understood what it was to be a weapon, a monster, robbed of family and connection. More often then than not, they still cut each other, sometimes without meaning too. Yennefer was trying, he could see it, to trust him, the one man in the world who could survive the sharpness of her edges. Geralt, to his credit, was trying too, but everything he knew of softness, of kindness, and gentle affection, he had learned from Jaskier. Which made the whole situation all the more confusing.

He and the bard shared space, meals, rooms, baths, beds, and Geralt found that he rather liked this sort of companionship, though he was loathe to admit it. Jaskier could talk, and talk, and talk, but he didn't ask the same of Geralt. The witcher was content to listen and the bard was content to fill the silence. He'd gotten so used to his own loneliness, the echoing spill of his own thoughts, there was comfort in not having to think. Jaskier filled up the edges of his world, made it bright and lush and loud.

Geralt couldn't have put a finger on it, the exact moment when he'd found his affections for Jaskier were something more than begrudging companionship. His attraction to Yennefer had been like a lightening bolt, sudden and so intense it burned, the scar of it something he would wear on his skin for a long while yet, the heat of it that lingered in his bones. They were linked by magic and destiny, and the witcher could not even begin to untangle that from all the things Yennefer made him feel, all on her own. But with Jaskier, it was like the low, calming build of an easy summer rain. There before you noticed it, and leaving you with no choice but to sit by and enjoy the reprieve. It wasn't destiny so much as happenstance, unexpected but pleasant turn of events he never wanted to end.

Jaskier fell in love like most men fell while drunk. Tumbling, haphazardly, and without care into the arms of whoever most caught his fancy at the time. Geralt used to think the bard nothing but a skirt chaser, a boy newly become a man and confusing the needs of his cock for affairs of the heart but, after the better part of a decade, it became plain that the two seemed hand in hand for his younger companion. Jaskier had no shortage of passion in his soul: he loved freely and easily. Geralt envied him for it. He'd known the needs of his body and even in the days when witchers were chased out of town at the business end of a pitchfork, in the right places at the right times, there was usually someone willing to take him to bed for the right amount of coin and chance to count a witcher's scars. Love though, that was a forbidden fruit, so far removed from him that he'd never even thought to want it. Geralt's experience with love of any kind was limited at best. He could barely remember his mother, and even so, she'd left him, like an unwanted dog. Vesimir could not be called loving by anyone. He'd had friends sure, but they were sharp edged and brutal as himself, their companionship always a little tainted with their duty. It was hard to love people who were only going to die anyway. Geralt's long life had been a cycle of fighting, fucking, killing, surviving. Jaskier had thrown him off that rhythm and the witcher found he was less than anxious to scramble his way back onto the wheel.

At first, Geralt had viewed their partnership as a chore but now, he found the absence of the bard too noticeable. The idea of something happening to Jaskier, his fragile friend, made him feel a sense of loss he couldn't quite explain. Jaskier made him feel a lot of things he couldn't explain. Jealousy. Happiness. Contentment. Desire. They would sneak up in him in the night, the needy curiosity of what it would feel like to have the bard's hands on his skin, to know what he would taste like, what he would feel like, the sounds Geralt could ring out of him, or better still the sounds he could ring out of the witcher himself. Simpler things too, of having a place to rest, a face to come back to, that lovely voice in his ear at night. All the things a witcher was not allowed to have by virtue of what he was. He was playing a dangerous game with his imagination, and yet he couldn't make himself stop. The world was too quiet without Jaskier, too dull. His absence, left Geralt feeling wanting. It was not the first time he'd felt that. He hadn't been enough for Renfri, and it gotten her killed in the end. He could never be enough for Yennfer, she wanted everything, a fact he begrudgingly admired her for, and he was well aware of how short he fell of the mark. But Jaskier, who loved stories and songs and the freedom of the road; he could maybe be enough for Jaskier, at least for a little while.

Geralt couldn't write songs, or make grand gestures of his undying affections. He didn't know how to feel his own feelings, let alone put them into words, that was something this life had stripped of him young. So he let himself give what he could, a listening ear, a steadfast companion, a muse. He bought them food, wine, baths, and company, as often as Jaskier would allow him. He would take the bed by the door in every room they shared, a last line of defense against any danger that might find them. He let Jaskier drag him to terrible parties full of courtly noble puffs who stared and chattered at him like he was a lion in a cage. He would tell Jaskier the tales of his fights, even though he'd rather not share them, and bite down a smile as the Jaskier scrambled to jot down the best parts in his ever present little book, practically vibrating with inspiration. When they were parted, he found little things he thought the bard would like, make up some flippant reason for it's purchase when the time came to gift it to him. He would never ask for more than that, than the warm companionship that Jaskier offered him, all for the price of a story.

Though, Geralt wondered, sometimes, if he shouldn't offer more. Especially on nights like this one.

“You need to let me have a look at that shoulder,” badgered Jaskier again.

“Leave off, Jaskier,” Geralt growled through barred teeth. He was soaked to the bone, covered in ichor and his own blood. He wanted a bath, a meal, and a bed in that order. Maybe some female companionship too, fighting and fucking were a good combination for a full night of sleep, and he needed sleep. He was too raw to be touched with Jaskier's kind concern and had no where to go with his own desperate need to be touched in a wholly different way.

But as usual, Jaskier didn't listen, didn't back off. He crawled out of his wet doublet, laid it by the fire, the smell of him filling the room and, Geralt breathed it in deep. His senses were still painfully sharp, the ghost of his potions still singing in he blood. Somehow, the room seemed to get smaller in that moment. The witcher growled, working at the bindings of his armor with freezing fingers. He cursed and at the sound of it Jaskier was back on him, like tick, helping the witcher out of his leathers, seemingly unconcerned about his foul mood.

Geralt huffed and allowed himself to be aided, snapping sharply as Jaskier peeled the damp fabric of his shirt away from wound. The gash cut deep into the meat of his shoulder, almost to the bone, and carved a line down his ribs, as he'd turned out of the blow. If Geralt had been a breath slower, the beast would have carved off his arm.

Jaskier hissed between his teeth.

“That's going to need stitches,” he said sympathetically.

“It'll heal fine, I just need to sleep,” Geralt grumbled, watching as Jaskier plainly ignored him, pouring water from the pitcher into the kettle to warm.

“And it gets infected between now and then, like it did in Sodden that time, I'll have to cut you open to drain it and you'll be a bear for a week and I'd rather not have to deal with that again, would you? Now, get your shirt off,” the bard quipped, no longer fazed by the witcher's dark scowling it seemed as he rummaged through their things collecting clean towels, and bandages, a small tin of some rich smelling salve.

“Hmmm,” Geralt growled. That had been one time, and Jaskier never let him forget it. Nevertheless, Geralt was too tired to argue. He shrugged stiffly out of his ruined shirt, dropping onto the floor. The wound was still bleeding sluggishly, the flesh raw and ragged and already beginning to smell. Loathe as he was to admit it, Jaskier was likely right. If he didn't take care of this now, he'd be dealing with it for weeks.

The bard finished gathering what he needed, setting it all neatly on the bedside table. Jaskier's fingers were rough and sure on his skin as he inspected the worst of the wounds. The first time he'd offered to patch Geralt up, some years ago, the witcher had scoffed, but a musician's hands were sure and steady, and Geralt had trusted him with the task ever since. He was always careful when stepping into the witcher's space, never afraid, simply cautious, giving the man time to adjust to the closeness. It was a small thing but, Geralt appreciated it endlessly. Maybe one day he'd thank Jaskier for it. For the moment, he just growled darkly, spreading his knees so Jaskier had room to stand between them, tilting his head and giving the bard room to work.

Calloused fingers brushed dripping hair over his shoulder and Geralt shuttered at the touch. Jaskier hushed him, seemingly unaware that the action was not in fact from the pain or the cold, barely breaking his constant stream of quiet easy chatter. His subjects were always varied but never things that required answer or even acknowledgement, how the food was better at this inn than the last, some pretty girl he'd swear had fallen in love with him right on the spot in the tavern this afternoon, the songs he'd sing about this new adventure, which reminded him of this one time he was signing in Vengerberg.... All the while, his hands remained steady in their work, cleaning away the blood, checking the wound, pressing the needle into his flesh with quick and efficient motions. His low, easy tone lulled Geralt's exhausted body into half sleep. He leaned into the Bard's hands with a sigh. His nose brushed the top of Jaskier's head and, without thinking, Geralt breathed in deep. Under his fine perfumes and the oils he used to keep his instrument in good condition, Jaskier always smelled like the road, like woodsmoke and sweet grass.

“Geralt? You with me?” Jaskier asks, his voice a little firmer than before, and Geralt opened his eyes.

Jaskier was half in Geralt's lap, so close their nose nearly touched. Geralt could feel the warmth of Jaskier's breath on his skin. He'd tied off the last of the stitches, rubbed the skin with salve to keep the wounds from pulling. His work finished, his fingers resting over Geralt's slow beating heart. This close, breathing the same air, Geralt could count the small every line of Jaskier's face. They were so few, despite his age. This close, Geralt could kiss him, if he wanted to, easy as breathing.

The bard smiled, a small grin Geralt rarely saw, like he was keeping a secret.

“Hello there handsome,” he said quietly, his tone easy, teasing.

Geralt licked his lips, his mouth suddenly terribly dry. He should ask for water. He said nothing.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier sighed, his eyes closing for a minute, but his smiled remained. Then he closed the distance between them, and pressed his lips against Geralt's own.

Geralt stiffened under the touch, startled at first. Jaskier didn't push, but he didn't pull away either, soothing a hand down Geralt's side, as if he were a flighty mare. The kiss was gentle, almost chaste and it drove Geralt mad with want. His hands moved of their own accord, one of Jaskier's hip to pull the bard all the way into his lap and the other on the back of the his neck, to hold him there. Jaskier smiled against his lips, his kiss turning harder, seeking, and Geralt opened to him without hesitation. tongue mapped the curve of his lips, with a sureness that shouldn't have surprised Geralt, but some how did. Geralt had lived a longer life, and fucked more by the virtue of it, but in this, it seemed, Jaskier was the superior man. Jaskier kissed like he made music, with a surety of a man who believed he was born for it.

Jaskier tasted like honey and good ale, rich tobacco and lemon sweets. The bard hummed contentedly against his mouth, and pulled back, combing his fingers through Geralt's damp hair, and all the witcher could do was stare at him in startled wonder. Part of him wanted to toss Jaskier on the bed and ravish him, devour him. But there was something else lingering in his bones, some that kept him pinned under that gentle gaze, those sure hands. A quiet desire to be moved and loved and devoured himself. To let the animal howling in his bones be quieted, to allow himself not to be strong and in control, even if it was just for a moment. He could trust Jaskier with his weariness, trust him with the desires but didn't have the words to ask for, the surrender he longed to offer. Here, in the quiet of of a strange tavern, Jaskier pressed flush against his body, was the one place in the world Geralt felt like he didn't have to fight. Damn his foolish heart.

“I've got you,” Jaskier whispered against his lips, “I've got you Geralt.”  
The witcher's brows pulled together, confused.

“You're shaking,” Jaskier said, fingers curled loosely at the back of Geralt's neck, rubbing slow, soothing circles in the muscle there.

Geralt took a breath, surprised to find the bard spoke the truth. His body was held so tightly his muscles trembled, as if in fear, perched on the knifes edge between fight and flight. His grip on Jaskier would leave a bruise, in the shape of his fingers, the thought sent another shockwave down his spine.

“Sorry,” he grumbled under his breath, willing himself to uncoil.

Jaskier grinned, looking pleased as a cat in cream.

“Don't be,” he cradled Geralt's jaw, drew his thumb across the witcher's kiss swollen mouth, “Is this alright?”

Geralt drew the callused finger into his mouth in answer. A gesture of submission he could not voice. Jaskier swore softly, his smile widening.

“Gods, you are a dream.”

“Hmm,” the witcher rumbled, lapping at Jaskier's fingers, tasting the sweetness of the salve and the metallic tang of his own blood.

“I waited for you to make a move forever,” Jaskier lamented, kissing the corner of Geralt's mouth, “If I'd have known all I had to do was patch you up and call you pretty, we could done this years ago.”

“Why didn't you?”

Jaskier' smile turned shy and his lashes fluttered.

“I didn't want to risk ruining it. Us. Losing you as a friend wasn't worth knowing I was right.”

“What's changed?”

Jaskier shrugged.

“It seemed like a good time to ask the question.”

“And what question is that?” the witcher asked, leaning into Jaskier's palm where it touched his cheek.

“Do you want me?” Jaskier said quietly, “Can I have you?”

Geralt turned his head to kiss Jaskier's palm. He couldn't make his mouth form the words but he'd never been much of a talker anyway. He was a man of actions, of deeds. He caught Jaskier's eyes, unraveling his hold on the bard, and laid back against the clean smelling sheets, letting his arms fall to his sides, and offering all he had to give of himself.

Jaskier's laughed, a soft thing that Geralt would have bottled if he could, and drank of it's sweetness all the days of his life. His bard's hands settled in the hollow of his throat and pressed lightly, clever fingers tracing the corded muscles of his neck as witcher growled, arching up into the touch.

“I could get used to this,” the bard grinned, letting his calloused hands run down the hard plans of Geralt's chest, careful of the stitches, “You under me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, the bard's name as sweet as honey on his tongue.

In this position, Jaskier was straddling his hips, and he must be able to feel the effect it was having on Geralt. As if he could sense the witcher's thoughts, Jaskier shifted in place, grinding his pelvis against the man beneath him, sending sparks of pleasure racing up Geralt's spine. He shivered and Jaskier chuckled as he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it somewhere across the room, before blanketing Geralt's body with his own. He rested with his elbows on either side of the witcher's head, holding just enough of his own weight so as not to put undo pressure on the other man's wounds. Geralt shuttered at the warmth of skin on skin and he could feel the hard line of Jaskier's cock against his hip. The younger man's fingers tangled in his thick white hair, and kissed him, slowly, thoroughly, until Geralt was shuddering and breathless. His fingers fisted in the sheets, afraid to touch, as if Jaskier would melt away into some cruel mirage, a dream he desperately didn't want to wake from.

“Geralt,” he pleaded, petulant as ever, against the witcher's kiss bruised mouth, “Put your hands on me.”

Geralt closed his eyes, shook his head. It was too much.

“It's okay, you won't hurt me. Come on Geralt, ” he encouraged and in that moment, Geralt found he could deny Jaskier nothing.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice too loud over the crackling over the fire and the sound of the rain outside.

He wrapped his arms around the bard's body, not so thickly muscled as his own, but substantial in its own way; strong from so much time on the road and hours of singing but bearing the softness of a life well lived and greatly enjoyed. Geralt pressed a broad palm in the center of Jaskier's back to keep him close, the other growing brave and snatching a handful of Jaskier's ample bottom, grinding up into him, chasing the delicious friction Jaskier had offered him earlier. The bard pulled back with a startled bark of laughter. He kissed the curve of Geralt's jaw and gave his pale hair a sharp tug. The witcher groaned, low and loud, craning his head back and offering Jaskier his throat, an act of submission not lost on the bard. He wanted to devour Jaskier. He wanted to be devoured by him.

“You're gorgeous, do you know that,” Jaskier babbled, kissing his way sharply along the curve Geralt's jaw, for once not afraid to use his teeth, “I dreamed about this but Goddess, dreams are never as good as the real thing are they? No dream could ever taste as good as you do. No dream could ever sound as sweet. The songs I could write...”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped, as the bard sucked a bruise into the hollow of throat. It would be gone by morning and already Geralt mourned the loss of it.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, lifting his head to catch Geralt's gaze, endless blue meeting sharp gold.

The witcher swallowed hard, the slow beat of his heart pulsing in his ears

“Everything,” he growled.

Jaskier sat up, blunt nails scratching across his skin, tugging at the dark hair on his chest, his lips turned up in a clever grin that sent the blood racing straight to Geralt's cock.

“Then let me give you the world, my white wolf.”

He slid back until he was resting on Geralt's thighs, their feet resting on the floor. Geralt was glad for that, because when Jaskier's clever fingers began to work at the buttons of his trousers, he bucked up into the touch with enough force it might have dislodged the bard otherwise. Jaskier only chuckled and steadied himself, reaching across their bodies to retrieve the small tin of sweet smelling salve he used earlier, the sharp smell of licorice and clove filling drifting over him. Geralt meant to apologize for his wantonness, but the moment Jaskier's hand slid into his pants, he forgot how to speak.

The bard's lute calloused fingers drew him out and stroked his half hard cock with practiced efficiency. His free hand rested on Geralt's unwounded pectoral, thumb rasping over the hardened nipple in a way that said he knew exactly how much the touch drove his witcher to distraction.

“Even your cock is handsome,” Jaskier muttered, seemingly to himself, his grin almost giddy but the movements of his hands steady, working his slick, tight fist around Geralt like he had all the time in the world, ''I could write a ballad to your body, and this, the one blade I could beg you to spear me with.”

Geralt wanted to roll his eyes at the poor pun but the implication of the words pooled hot in Geralt's belly.

“Fuck,” he groaned, grasping at the younger man, catching his thighs and holding on tight, lest his body simply float way, lost in the pleasure of those clever hands on him.

“That rather the idea, isn't it?”

Jaskier smiled like a cat in cream, leaning in to pepper sharp kisses across the plains of Geralt's chest, over his ribs and down his stomach. Geralt's eyes rolled up and he growled between his teeth, the sound coming out higher than he'd meant it too, animal and wanton. Jaskier pulled away, his weight lifting off Geralt's thighs. Jaskier chuckled at the look of put off surprise Geralt shot him.

“Now now, don't pout Geralt,” he teased, kicking the witcher's feet further apart, before sliding to his knees, “I'm far from done with you yet. Be patient.”

Before Geralt could offer some clever quip, Jaskier ran his tongue up the underside of Geralt's cock and the witcher's head fell back against the sheets, seeing stars. Jaksier had joked once, drunk on good wine at the wedding of some noble or another, about how his mouth was a gift, an instrument the gods gave him to deliver stories and pleasure unto those grace by his presence. Geralt had teased him merciless about it after, but now he was eating his words. Jaskier had a mouth like a Cintran courtesan; he treated fucking like an art and Geralt was his instrument of choice. The moment he took Geralt between his lips, lathing the flat of his tongue across the head, working the shaft in his fist, Geralt swore his heart picked up a beat. His world narrowed to the heat of Jaskier's mouth, the devil sharp cleverness of his tongue. This was definitely not the first time Jaskier had had a cock in his mouth. Geralt's fingers tightened in the sheets, and he breathed sharply, trying to hold tight to his control. Jaskier was good at this but he was still a just a man and Geralt was still a witcher, stronger and faster by design. Jaskier wasn't like Yenn, who could toss him off at a moment's notice if he got too rough. It wasn't a risk worth taking and beside, he wanted to savor this.

Jaskier, it seemed, had other plans. Watching Geralt though his fine, doe lashes, the bard reached for Geralt's hands, where they had a death grip on the sheets. Geralt forced himself to release the abused fabric, let Jaskier tangle their finger together. The other guided Geralt's free hand to the top of Jaskier's head, and Geralt had to bit his tongue to keep from coming right then and there.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he choked.

In response, Jaskier took a deep breath through his nose, and swallowed the witchers cock, kept swallowing, until his nose touched Geralt's pelvic bone. Geralt's fingers latched onto the locks as his back bowed. The bard gagged a little and Geralt loosened his hold immediately, letting the bard up for air, but unable to untangle his fingers from the soft tresses. The younger man pulled off with a pleased grin, mouth slick with spit and breathing heavy, painting a lewd picture that Geralt would remember for the rest of his long life.

The bard pressed a kiss, too gentle, into the valley of Geralt's hip bone, rubbed his cheek against the rasp of dark hair on Geralt's lower stomach, his fingers stroking the witcher's cock lazily. His pupils were blown and gazed at Geralt with something uncomfortably close to reverence when he spoke.

“Let me love you, Geralt of Rivia, as best I know how.”

Geralt sat up a little at the words, propping himself up on an elbow, brushing Jaskier's mussed hair from his eyes, letting his hand cradle the smooth, round curve of Jaskier's cheek. The bard leaned into the touch, and Geralt's chest ached.

“I don't know how,” he said, his voice a hatefully small thing. But it was the truth, the only real thing he could offer Jaskier. He knew how to be a weapon, he knew the things a weapon needed to stay sharp. He didn't know much of love, how to give it, and even less of how to receive it.

But Jaskier's smile never faltered, he simply pressed a kiss to Geralt's palm.

“I know. Will you trust me to show you?”

Geralt swallowed hard and nodded.

“If you want me to stop, just say the word. Promise me.”

Geralt nodded again.

“I want to hear you say it,” Jaskier said, drawing his fingers up the underside of Geralt's cock, the touch too light, too brief, “I want to hear everything from you.”

“Yes,” he groaned, “I promise.”

Jaskier fixed him with a content smile and kissed the head of Geralt's cock before taking it fully in his mouth again. He set up a brutal rhythm, his hands now locked around Geralt's thick thighs, holding him in place. The witcher could have broken the hold if he wanted to, the both knew it, but breaking free was the last thing on his mind. He twisted, and writhed against the sheets, one hand back in Jaskier's hair and the other stuffed in his own mouth lest he wake up half the inn. Jaskier swallowed him down, holding for a moment to let Geralt thrust shallowly into the wet heat, before hollowing his cheeks and pulling back with a lewd pop, lathing his tongue over the blushed head with slow, cruel precision that made Geralt shake. He was hard to aching.

“I'm want you to come in my mouth,” Jaskier said, in a tone that was at once tender and firm and it shattered something in Geralt, a final assault against any resolve he might have held against the Bard's onslaught.

He didn't give the witcher time to answer, just swallowed him down again, to the root this time, holding for a breath, and then pulling back it with pressure and heat that drove Geralt wild. It had not been a request then, but a command, and that alone sent a hot wave desire shuttering down Geralt's spine. Jaskier's hand released his thighs, snaking around his waist instead. One broad hand splayed against the small of his back, lifting his hips, the other slid down the back of his trousers. Geralt barely had time to question the motion, before a slick finger slid between his cheeks, played at his hole. Instinctively, his body tightened against the intrusion but the bard didn't push. Instead, Jaskier pulled up, suckled at the head of Geralt's aching cock and caught Geralt's eye, holding his gaze for a long moment. Swallowed him again, until Geralt's cock hit the back of his throat, and pressed a finger slowly into him.

Geralt clapped his hand over him mouth a moment to late to stifle the shout that clawed it's way up his throat, his body quaking like he'd been struck by lightening. He fucked sharply and without finesse into the endless heat of Jaskier's mouth, back against the persistent finger pushing into him, not too quickly, but insistent. The dual sensation peaked when Jaskier added a second finger, working in deeper, and suckling the head of Geralt's cock in time. The fingers curled, stoking deep, pressing against the spot inside that made the witcher's knees go weak. Orgasm hit him like a blow. His hips stuttered, fucking sharply a into Jaskier's mouth for a moment. The bard worked him through it, fingers still tucked deep inside Geralt as his whole body locked up, shaking with the pleasure of release. The bard swallowed what he could, and then pulled off, lapped at Geralt's still hard and now very sensitive cock as it twitched, come spilling weakly over his skin.

Jaskier was rosy cheeked, his mouth kiss swollen and smeared with spit and spend, grin satisfied and smug in a way that made Geralt want to both kiss him and throttle him.

“Good?”

“Fuck.”

Geralt let his head flop back against the mattress, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. This shouldn't be happening. Once he crossed this line, he couldn't just hop back to the other side. But here they were, Jaskier kissing his way lazily up the trail of Geralt's taut belly, pulling his fingers carefully from the witcher's body. He cursed himself the emptiness he felt at the movement. He shouldn't want this so badly, not just the sex, but the bone deep rush of feeling seen, cared for, tended, as if he were prize horse, or Jaskier's lute. He'd never really been treated with what anyone could call tenderness outside a few stolen moments where Yenn let her mask slip and with Jaskier. Always with Jaskier.

He needed to right his trousers and go find a bath, shake off this feeling with some pretty girl he paid to do the deed, who wouldn't coddle him, or look at him like he was worth anything more than a good solid piece of gold.

As was his want though, Jaskier, had his own plans. He was tugging unceremoniously at Geralt's boots.

“What are you doing?” the witcher asked, propping up on his elbows.

“I'm undressing you,” Jaskier replied, in the same exasperatedly patient tone Geralt had heard used with children and well liked dogs, “Unless you want to fuck me with you boots on?”

Geralt blinked at him, owlishly, as if he hadn't just come in the bard's mouth.

“Or I could fuck you,” the bard said slyly, tossing Geralt's boot away and working at the laces of the other.

“Or both,” the bard continued thoughtfully, “or neither, if that's what you want? I just know that once you start going, you're usually at it for hours, and I fully intend to take complete advantage of whatever you are interested in doing for the rest of the evening.”

The other boot landed across the room with a clatter. Jaskier was tugging at his trousers, pulling them down Geralt's legs and kiss the taut muscles of his thighs with something close to reverence. He tossed them across the room to join the boots, but his hand found their way to Geralt's now naked hips, tracing a deep puckered scar on the on the top of the witcher's thigh with his mouth, humming contentedly.

Geralt could tell him to stop. Jaskier had made him promise he would, if he needed too. The problem was he very much _didn't_ want to. He liked the way he felt under Jaskier's hands. Like, for once in his life, he was something softer than stone, than steel, something warm and malleable and ready to be made into something that exists only for the pleasure of being viewed, instead of a monster made to hunt monsters, a creature carved out from poison and pain, made to fight and bleed and die. He hated that he loved that feeling; that now that he'd been given a taste, he'd chase it to the ends of the earth for another. Affection. A long life alone and twice in one decade he'd been reduced to the stumbling, unsure suitor, wanting nothing more than to be loved and having no idea how to return the favor.

“Geralt,” Jaskier called, his voice a little nearer, a little less teasing.

The witcher opened his eyes, surprised to find Jaskier on the the bed next to him, his smile gone and his brows creased in concern. Goddess, his face was lovely, wasn't it? Not flawless, but soft and human and real.

“Hmm,” the witcher grunted, turning his head to find a fixed spot on the ceiling.

“Where did you go?” Jaskier asked, tracing idle patterns on Geralt's stomach, “I meant what I said earlier, you know. You won't hurt me, even if what you want is to stop.”

Geralt turned his head to look back at Jaskier, his expression gone soft. He wished he had words. Pretty words for a beautiful bard, to tell him he deserved better. That he understood that Jaskier fell in love freely and often but just his one time, you fool, run away. Know what was good for you.

Instead, he closed the distance between them, cradled the curve of Jaskier stubbled cheek in his rough palm and kissed him.

Jaskier smiled against his mouth, opened to him, allowing Geralt to taste himself on the bard's tongue. Jaskier smelled like sex, and want, and Geralt would have given anything to simply fall asleep in the warmth of him and never wake. He pulled at the bard, and Jaskier came to him, let himself be maneuvered more fully on the bed, still half clothed, with the witcher looming over him. The bard smiled, soothed a hand up Geralt's flank.

“I want all of you Geralt,” he breathed against Geralt's lips, “even the parts you don't want yourself. Let me have you. Let me take care of you.”

The witcher shook his head, a soft smile pulling at his mouth without his meaning for it too. Jaskier would come to regret those words, the Geralt was sure of it, but for now, just for tonight, he'd find his comfort in them. He let his body blanket Jaksier's, kissed him slow and throughly, until the bard was gasping, rocking impatiently against the hard jut of Geralt's thigh.

“You're wearing too much,” he teased, nipping the lobe of Jaskier's ear, as the bard grabbed his ass and ground up hard against him.

“Better solve that then, ah! hadn't we” he panted back, sucking a bruise into the meat of Geralt's unwounded shoulder.

Geralt shifted onto his knees, reaching between their bodies and slowly working open the lacings of Jaskier's pants, locking eyes with the smaller man while he worked.

Jaskier, for a brief moment was silent, holding Geralt's golden gaze, before letting his eyes rove the witcher's body. There was a hunger in Jaskier. Geralt could see the glint of it in his eyes, the sharpness of it in his smile, could smell it, the heady scent of sex and ardor.

“I want you in me,” the bard breathed, the words send a hot wave of desire rushing through the witcher.

Part of him wanted to take Jaskier right there, flip him on to his belly and fuck him like and animal. But Jaskier had brought him off once already, it only seemed fair to return the favor, and it would be nicer for them both, if Geralt fucked him when he was loose and languid, riding the high of one orgasm straight into the next.

Geralt pulled the damp fabric from Jaskier's chilled skin and tossed them away into the half dark of the room, blanketing the bard with his body again. Their legs tangled and he drew Jaskier's arms over his shoulders as the kissed. Jaskier moved sinuously against him, chasing the friction and warmth, skin on skin, his heartbeat like the steady roll of thunder in the witcher's ears. Geralt sucked a bruise into the hollow of Jaskier's throat, worried at the skin, careful of the sharpness of his own teeth, until he Jaskier was moaning, hard and leaking, rutting hard against Geralt's thigh, before he began to kiss his way down the bard's body. Over his chest, along his ribs, the softness of his belly, following the trail of dark hair below Jaskier's navel, to where his cock stood proud and flushed against his hip. He was of a size, Geralt thought to himself, he wouldn't mind having that inside him sometime. But tonight, Jaskier had asked first.

He pushed the bard's thighs wide to make room for his bulk between them. The bed was big, and luxurious, this was the finest inn in town, as Jaskier always demanded with some bit of coin in his pocket, but Geralt was a tall man and Jaskier had to scoot up against the headboard to make room for him.

Geralt kissed his way lazily over the bard's thighs, ignoring the petulant huffing from above as he purposefully avoided making contact with Jaskier's cock.

“Let me take care of you,” he parroted the bard's word's back at him, with a teasing smile, “and hand me that salve.”

Jaskier's cheeks flushed, his indignation lost at the promise of what was to come and he scrambled to locate the salve among the blankets while Geralt worked a bruise into the meat of his thigh. He wouldn't be complaining to ride Roach tomorrow, if Geralt had anything to say about it.

Jaskier pressed the tin of salve in Geralt's waiting palm, already open. Jaksier combed his fingers through Geralt's tangled hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The witcher kissed his way along the soft curve of Jaskier's hip, finally wrapping his fingers around Jaskier. The bard gasped and the witcher all but purred against his skin, leaning into the grip of fingers in his hair as they turned rough, tugging.

He perhaps lacked the bard's finesse and patience; he lapped at the shaft and pink head gracelessly, with the same brash tenacity that he did all things, and Jaskier didn't seem to mind. Geralt was out of practice with this sort of love making; it had been a long time since he'd slept with a man. Too long, now that he was thinking about it. He let his eyes flutter closed, enjoyed the taste of Jaskier his tongue, the warmth of the bard's cock in his mouth. Jaskier shuttered and groaned, not quiet, never quiet but still, miraculously at a loss for words.

Geralt allowed himself to savor the satisfaction in that has he tugged Jaskier's thighs over his shoulders, ignoring the way it tugged at the stitches. The bard gave a startled exhale, but he was grinning when Geralt looked up at him, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still in the witcher's hair, petting the locks and cooing at him like he was a well behaved pet. Loathe as he was to admit it, Geralt rather liked the praise.

He left Jaskier to composing sonnets about his thighs, and turned back to the work at hand. Geralt knew his wants, his needs, and he knew what needed to be done to make sure his partners were well tended. Geralt warmed a bit of salve warm between his fingers, as Jaskier had, and reached between their bodies, cradling the bard's sack in his rough palm, fondling him as he swallowed Jaskier's cock. The bard's sweet nothings cut off in abrupt shout, his thighs falling open as his head fell back. Geralt wondered what other sounds he could ring out of the bard, carefully cataloging each whine and grasp and groan into his memory. He stroked a hand up Jaskier's thigh, grabbing a handful of the Bard's strong thigh, while his fingers moved lower.

Jaskier's breathing caught as Geralt's slick fingers pressed at the soft skin behind his balls, teasing as the witcher pulled off, mapped the shaft of Jaskier's leaking cock with his lips. The bard had gone speechless again, voice coming out in so groans that sounded vaguely like witcher's name. He let his fingers slid between Jaskier's cheeks, brush over his hole, the bard's body, clenching in anticipation, fluttering at the lightest touch. Geralt worked the salve over Jaskier's hole, taking the bard fully in his mouth again as he pressed in, steady and slow, but unrelenting. Jaskier squirmed, cried out, torn between the insistent push of Geralt into him and the intense, glorious heat of the mouth sucking him. The witcher released his grip of Jaskier's thigh and pressed it flat to his lower belly, holding him still. Jaskier groaned, loud and lewd and the sound stirred the fire pooling in Geralt's belly again.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “Geralt please.”

Geralt pulled off his cock with hollowed cheeks and lewd pop.

“Shh,” he hushed, pressing a kiss almost reverently to the pink, weeping head, as he worked the finger in deeper, “Be patient. You waited on me this long didn't you? ”

Jaskier's body was flushed, his mouth half open, his eyes half closed, staring at Geralt like he was a treasure. He was smiling, that soft smile Geralt hadn't let himself put much stock in before, too afraid of hoping. He smiled back, and pressed a second finger into the bard.

Jaskier cried out, his hips rocking as he pushed into the touch, spearing himself deeper. Geralt gave a growl of his own, and peppered a line of sharp kisses into the meat of Jaskier's unmarked thigh, reveling in the thought that Jaskier would feel him here tomorrow. He stoked the bard in a tight fist.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier groaned, hair mussed where his head was pressed against the pillows, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead.”

Jaskier offered a breathless laugh, on hand clawing at Geralt's shoulders, careful not to catch the stitches and undo his careful work.

“God I want you in me.”

“Hmm,” the witcher rumbled, pleased with the praise, pressing his fingers into the knuckle and curling them, stroking against the place that made Jaskier clap a hand over his mouth as his spine bowed. Geralt grinned. Not so out of practice after all then.

“Geralt, _fuck_ you keep that up and I'm going to come,” he panted.

The witcher shot him a playful grin, all sharp white teeth.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I told you, I want you...”

“I know and you'll have it,” Geralt cut him off, “but trust me, it will be be better this way.”

Jaskier's expression went soft as he settled back into the pillows, his smile content and his body languid.

“I trust you.”  


The remark startled Geralt into stillness. He knew Jaskier trusted him, why else would he risk everything following the Witcher to after monsters, dragging him to court parties. But to hear him say it, here, in a place Geralt wasn't honestly sure he trusted himself, was something quite different.

Jaskier laughed, not unkindly and tucked his arms behind his head.

“Don't go soft on me now Witcher,” he said, his voice rough with want, a little breathless, teasing and it shot a jolt of desire down Geralt's spine like a lightening bolt.

He returned to his work with renewed fervor. He worked three fingers into Jaskier mercilessly, working him open, pushing in deep, until Jaskier keened. The bard's heels were pressed into the mattress, his fingers in the witcher's hair, clinging to him, while Geralt sucked him like he was made for it. He couldn't give Jaskier pretty words or romantic gestures, but he could him this. Offer himself up to Jaskier in all the ways he knew how.

Orgasm descended on Jaskier like a storm, his body quivering under Geralt's hands, building from minute shivers and swelling to a full body quaking. He gasped out Geralt's name, sweet as honey, his body clutching at Geralt's fingers in a way that went straight to the witcher's cock. Jaskier thrust twice more into Geralt's mouth before he fell apart with a cry, eyes rolling back in his head and clutching at the witcher like he was a scared thing. Geralt let him, breathing deep as his nose press against Jaskier's pelvis, enjoying the feeling of his body being used for pleasure instead of death. He fucked Jaskier through it, swallowed his seed and drank down the pretty, broken sounds his bard made, until he was shaking, too sensitive and pushing at Geralt with fluttering hands. Finally, the witcher pulled off his cock with a satisfied smile, easing his fingers out of the bard and letting himself enjoy the way Jaskier's hole clenched up in the absence of him. Jaskier opened his arms and Geralt went, blanketing the smaller man with his body, kissing him, slipping his tongue into Jaskier's mouth, letting him taste himself of Geralt's tongue. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier, thrust his hard cock against Jaskier's thigh to take his own edge off. The bard would smell like him tomorrow, and that made him all the harder. Jaskier pressed kisses to the sharp line of Geralt's cheekbone, as the witcher pressed his face into the bard's neck and breathed deep.

Time stretched, quiet and peaceful between them, while Jaskier caught his breath, making the hills and valleys of Geralt's scarred, thick muscled body, before finally reaching down between their body's taking Geralt in his fist once more. The witcher groaned, hard to aching again.

“Come on then wolf,” Jaskier teased, “You've promises to keep.”

“You sure?” he asked, reaching down to stroke Jaskier's cock in his own fist.

The bard's head dropped back against the pillows with a moan, the exposed line of his throat making Geralt's mouth water.

“Tired, old man? What about that witcher stamina I hear so much about,” Jaskier laughed.

Geralt grinned, dragged his teeth lightly across Jaskier's pulse.

“Wanton,” he rumbled, sucking a bruise in the hollow of Jaksier's throat.

“Famously,” the bard sighed

“Greedy,” Geralt breathed, biting sharply at meat of his lover's shoulder.

“Fabulously,” Jaskier groaned.

“Bratty,” Geralt laughed, lathing his tongue over a pert nipple, causing the younger man to gasp and squirm, rocking up into his hold.

“Notoriously,” he panted, grabbing a handful of Geralt's ass and grinding up against his thigh, Not you best get on with it witcher, or I'll be quite cross”

Jaskier could hardly get the words out without chuckling and Geralt found himself mirroring that smile. A voice in the back of his head was screaming at him to stop this foolishness, to stop grinning and teasing like a child in love. To run, because this could only ever hurt both of them. But Geralt shut out the cloying voice, barely about to hear it over the bard's sweet laughter and the thundering of his heart. The witcher untangled himself from his bard, sitting up on his knees and snatching the tine of salve from where they had tossed it aside. He warmed it between his hands, warmed it to melting, and worked it over his cock in slow strokes, watching the way the bard's tongue wet his lips, his expression hungry, pinning the witcher with his gaze. Geralt snarled, the smell of arousal, his and Jaskier's sharp in the room. He grabbed Jaskier's thighs, tugging him down on the bed, pulling him closer. The bard stopped laughing then, his eye gone wide with anticipation.

“Well then,” Geralt rumbled, leaning in so close, he fell the warmth of Jaskier's breath, “I would not want to rouse your ire.”

Jaskier leaned up to kiss him but Geralt moved out of reach, grinning, arranging the bard's thighs around his hips.

“Ready,” he asked, and was rewarded with a roll of Jaskier's eyes.

“You had three bloody fingers in me Geralt. Don't get cocky.”

Geralt laughed, a sound that rumbled from deep in his chest. Like Jaskier could ever call anyone cocky, any other time Geralt would have told him so, but this revenge seemed so much sweeter.

Geralt locked eyes with the bard, taking himself in his grip, holding Jaskier's hip with the other and slowly entered him.

Jaskier's mouth fell open, the sound that came out was one of pure bliss. His fingers clutched the sheets and Geralt clutched him, willing himself to go slow, to breath. The tight heat of Jaskier's body was everything he'd dreamed and more. He worked himself in in slow degrees, Jaskier's heels digging into the bed with a cry, leveraging himself into every inward thrust, taking Geralt deeper. Geralt had fucked people before. Geralt had fucked men before. But very rarely was it anything like this, the kind of pleasure that made him bite his lip and breath to keep from coming right there, cock half buried in Jaskier. The bard would never let him live it down.

“Fuck,” he ground out as he felt their hips meet, leaning forward on his palms, caging Jaskier in.

“I wish you would,” Jaskier quipped, breathless, running his hands down the hard plans of Geralt's stomach, “Goddess you feel _good_.”

Geralt fucked him, slow and steady, Jaskier rocking his hips into each powerful thrust. His cock was hard and flushed against his belly again but he made not move to relieve himself. He seemed content to clutch at the witcher, leaving his mark on Geralt's body with bites and scratches they both knew would be gone by morning, yet so careful of his witcher's wounds. Calloused hands slid up his chest, pressed into the hollows of his throat, and Geralt found himself stilled, as if waiting for a command. In that moment, he would have done anything Jaskier asked. It was not a trust he could ever remember offering anyone else, not like this. He was inside Jaskier, over him, but the bard was in control. He must have felt the weight of it, because Jaskier hitched his thighs a little higher up round Geralt's waist, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close. Geralt gave a pitched moan, sharp teeth bared, rutting into Jaskier helplessly.

“You are so good, Geralt,” he said, his voice so soft, so achingly gentle, rocking up into Geralt, pushing his cock impossibly deeper, “Give me everything. Don't hold back.”

Geralt growled, and the bard chocked out a breathless half laugh. The sound of flesh on flesh filled the room, tangled with the moans and cries neither of them had any interest in quieting. He was chasing the edge of desire now, so close it ached. He sat up, panting, hauling Jaskier's ankles over his shoulder's and all but bending him in half, setting a brutal pace, striking deep and true. Jaskier cried out with ever thrust now, one hand wrapped around his cock, the other buried in Geralt's hair.

“That's it my wolf,” he chattered, his voice quaking “Give me everything. Fuck! _Geralt_ Give me all of you.”

The words unraveled the witcher's control, send a shudder down his spine so hard he thought he would break apart. Geralt snarled, pounding into the bard with renewed fervor, rutting deep, and grinding his hips cruelly, the pleasure out of the Jaskier by his teeth. The body under him went rigid and the bard curled in on himself with a whine, coming in his own grip. The tight clutch of his body was too much. Geralt grunted, letting Jaskier's legs to slide off his shoulders, burying his face in Jaskier's neck as he clung to him. His thrusts turned messy, erratic, stuttering. His shoulder ached but he didn't care, he was so painfully close now, Jaskier's body tight as a vice and hot as hellfire.

“It's okay Geralt, it's okay,” Jakier panted in his ear, stroking his hair, his flank, tilting his up as best her could in this position, “Let go.”

The command snapped the thin cord of Geralt's resolve. Orgasm hit him like a blow, the searing heat gathered in his belly taking him over. The witcher's body quaked, his hips stuttering as he fucked hard and deep to Jaskier's body, coming with a shout. Jaskier's hands slid down the sweat damp planes Geralt's back as he shuttered apart, his kisses turned gentle and soothing, until Geralt's arms folded under, completely undone.

He managed to roll them onto their sides as he collapsed. He tried to untangle himself from Jaskier, Geralt remember the discomfort of a man over staying his welcome, but the bard clung to him like a barnacle.

“Should clean up,” He rumbled, running his fingers down the valley of Jaskier's spine.

“In a minute,” Jaskier sighed, “Let me enjoy this.”

The silence stretched for a long moment, Jaskier's breath slow and sleepy. He rolled his hips a little, Geralt gone soft inside him. The witcher pulled away reluctantly, flopping onto his back, good arm tucked behind his head. His shoulder would ache like hellfire tomorrow. He didn't much care. Jaskier sifted to press against his side with a pleased sigh.

“And what is this, Jaskier,” Geralt braved, once they had settled.

The bard propped himself on an elbow and fixed Geralt with a gentle, questioning look.

“What do you want it to be?”

“I don't really know what I want,” he said earnestly.

“Then,” Jaskier replied, tracing idle patterns in the hair on Geralt's chest, “Why don't we figure it out together?”

Geralt grinned at his body, soft and warm. He wanted to learn every curve and line of it, map it's hills and valleys and commit it to memory. He really should find a way to shake this bard, a voice in the back of his mind hissed, cursing him for a fool. But Geralt found, for the first time in a long time, another voice speaking, sweet and cloying, that maybe, just this once, he could keep something for just himself. That maybe it wouldn't end badly. It was a sweet lie, and he drank deep of it's well, lulled into sleep by the sweet sound of Jaskier's voice in his ear, wrapped in the familiar scent of wood smoke and sweet grass.


End file.
